


Knife Sharp and Sweaty

by fredbassett



Series: Stephen/Ryan series [18]
Category: Primeval
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-31
Updated: 2012-01-31
Packaged: 2017-10-30 10:25:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,791
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/330712
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fredbassett/pseuds/fredbassett
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Special Forces lads are playing, and playing hard.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Knife Sharp and Sweaty

Stephen Hart winced.

When Special Forces played, they played hard.

Even with padded leather covers over the blades, knives were still connecting with flesh hard enough to bruise and tear.

Every time blood appeared, Ditzy simply tut-tutted and readied yet another plaster or dressing, and then proceeded to point out to his latest patient the flaw in technique that had led to the injury.

They were down to the last four now: Finn, Kermit, Dane and …………… Ryan.

It was a blazingly hot day. Sun beat down into the courtyard behind the hotel, shimmering off the tarmac, turning the whole place into a sauna. They were all stripped to the waist by now and it was just getting hotter.

So why the hell a game of knife-tag had seemed like a good idea, he really didn’t know. Maybe they’d just got bored with arm-wrestling over lighted candle stubs? It was probably too hot for candles, anyway.

Blade leant against the wall, waiting for his latest opponent. He’d already dispatched three of the others in a rapid succession of bouts averaging no more than two minutes each. Which was actually a lot more impressive than it sounded.

Stephen had fenced for several years before he’d taken up shooting and he knew exactly how hard close knife-work could be. Shit, this bloke was good. He now saw exactly where the nickname had come from.

Finn strapped on the light kevlar stab-vest they were using for protection. Lyle, acting as referee, threw him the knife, after first checking the blade-cover was still secure. Finn nodded his thanks and without waiting, spun on one foot and closed fast and hard on his opponent.

Approximately three seconds later, Lyle yelled, “Hit! Heart! You’re out, you silly fucker. No second chances. You blew it!”

Finn retired, muttering. He’d been hoping to catch his team-mate off balance. It hadn’t worked and he’d been the one caught out, arm over-extended too far for easy recovery. He pulled at the velcro straps, grimacing, and chucked the jacket and knife to Kermit.

The younger man did slightly better and even managed to land one glancing scrape on Blade’s left shoulder, which earned him a whoop of surprise and delight from the onlookers and a look of mild surprise from his opponent. Kermit’s luck ended there and he retired a minute later.

It took a total of three hits, the maximum allowed for blows judged non-lethal by Lyle, before Dane retired, sweating copiously and cursing, to offer up a nasty rip on his forearm to Ditzy’s patent brand of medical sarcasm.

“Can we persuade you to play, Dr Hart?” enquired Blade, while Ryan was kitting up.

Common-sense entered the ring against sheer stupidity and promptly lost. 

Stephen grinned. “Got a smaller stab-vest?”

A minute later, he was circling warily, sweat already running in trails down his back. Blade had taken and held the optimum position so far as the sun was concerned, so his opponents had to come against him almost blind, and not one of them had succeeded in making him give ground, not even by as much as a foot.

Stephen had faced some fast fencers in his time, but this guy would have beaten even the best of them for economy of movement and sheer, over-whelming speed. He knew perfectly well he didn’t stand a cat in hell’s chance of surviving more than about a minute, but his aim was to score one hit. Just one hit and he’d be satisfied.

He knew there was no point in relying on the standard techniques of probe, retreat, or feint. He’d seen probes parried with a brutal efficiency that had jarred tendon and even bone. Retreats were simply ignored, feints were ruthlessly dismissed. The bastard had an almost unnatural ability to know which moves were real and which weren’t.

Knives weaved invisible cat’s cradles in the shimmering heat haze.

Watch the knife, not the hand.

He saw the shift coming and closed fast, dodging left as the other man’s weapon flew smoothly from hand to hand, as though drawn by an invisible thread. Then he ducked and rolled, his shoulder ripping painfully across the tarmac. He came up under Blade’s arm and managed to get one hard jab in at the soldier’s thigh, before he felt the thump of the knife point against the back of his right shoulder blade.

“One hit each!” Lyle’s voice held amusement. “Dr Hart used to fence epee, gentlemen, so don’t expect him to ignore the leg as a target. But one more hit and he takes you, Hart. You need two to take him.”

Stephen grinned. He’d done as well as he’d hoped, anything else was a bonus.

His next objective was simply to last one whole minute more. He managed it, with an entire six seconds to spare before a blow took him hard enough in the stomach to wind, even through the body armour.

Ryan grabbed his arm and hauled him to his feet. “Nice stunt,” he muttered, “and the gravel rash suits you, darling. Can I apply the antiseptic?”

The smell of Ryan’s sweat went straight to Stephen’s groin. “Only if you promise not to be gentle with me.”

He wandered over to lean against the wall next to Lyle, declining Ditzy’s offer of assistance. He could wait.

It wasn’t much of a hardship. His growing erection provided a perfectly good distraction from the skinned shoulder and bruised stomach. Christ, Ryan looked hot, and he wasn’t just thinking of the temperature.

The black kevlar stab-vest nestled in distractingly attractive contrast against lightly tanned naked flesh, already gleaming with moisture. Corded tendons stood out on Ryan’s neck and arms and his shoulder muscles positively surged as he met, and parried, Blade’s first attack.

At Stephen’s side, Lyle muttered under his breath, “Oh you sneaky bastard, Ryan, you might just pull this one off. Blade hasn’t seen you fight with a knife before, has he?”

Stephen glanced at Lyle and raised his eyebrows. “What have I just missed?” he asked, voice equally low. “Looked a normal opening sequence to me. If it runs true to form, the sod’ll take him in about another minute.”

“Maybe, maybe not,” Lyle was grinning now, openly amused.

Of the other men, the only one sharing his amusement was Ditzy, who’d taken one quick glance up as Ryan had stepped forward and had then gone back to organising his medical supplies, a broad grin on his face.

Stephen’s interest sharpened, not least because he could now see thin lines of sweat making their way down Ryan’s face and neck, winding deliciously over muscle and tendon to slide down under the material of the vest, tracking ever lower ……..

“Hit!”

Blade’s high feint to one side had seemingly caught Ryan unawares and his recovery had been a split second too late. The knife struck home and ripped a bright red gouge across the captain’s right upper arm, blood mingling with sweat and spreading into a wet, inviting stain.

Ryan’s face remained completely impassive, but Stephen’s cock didn’t. He wondered if he’s get away with a quick adjustment to his clothing without anyone noticing. The blatant grin on Kermit’s face provided the answer.

Sod it, there was clearly no point in trying to be discreet round here.

Ryan’s next two moves were standard text book stuff. A straight throat stab that if it had connected would almost certainly have caused major damage, followed by a chest level feint, to disguise an attempt at slashing Blade’s knife arm. Good, sound moves. Executed neat and fast. Enough to keep himself in the contest, but not likely to be enough to win.

Stephen’s hand dropped to his crotch and he ignored Kermit’s amusement. Fuck it, he was so hard it was starting to hurt. The sweat steadily finding its way down his back and running into his ass-crack wasn’t helping his composure either.

Blade’s knife switch came so fast it almost caught Stephen by surprise, even though he was expecting the move.

Ryan had clearly been expecting it as well and his answering shift was almost as good.

Blade smoothly side-stepped, throwing the knife back to his right hand and closing with blinding speed, catching Ryan off guard, knife now in the captain’s left hand.

Stephen gave a low groan of disappointment. He’d almost started to believe that Ryan was going to pull it off and win the bout. He’d held out against the knife-master now almost as long as the rest of the soldiers put together, but his chances had just plummeted. Stephen had fenced left handed occasionally, and he knew that anyone who was serious about combat techniques would always practise with their weaker hand, he’d seen the guys do the same with guns but still………..

Ryan’s left arm extended in a blur of movement, muscles bunched and hard, the tendons in his neck tight and straining with effort. Blade parried but it was already too late, Ryan was past his guard and up close, the knife ramming home with an audible thud. His other arm snaked round the Blade’s neck, dragging him off balance and dropping him onto the tarmac.

Lyle laughed.

The soldiers yelled.

Blade described his captain’s ancestry in graphic and unlikely detail, in between gulping shuddering breaths as he tried to drag the air back into his lungs that Ryan’s knife had so forcibly emptied.

Stephen stared in amazement, only mildly surprised that he hadn’t come on the spot, just from the sudden release of tension. “But he’s right-handed ……….”

“Told you he was a sneaky bastard,” countered Lyle with delight. “He knife-fights left-handed. Always has, but Blade’s never seen him play this game before. I’ll never get odds as good as this again, though. Bugger.”

Ryan dropped the knife, allowing himself a tight smile and started to strip the kevlar vest off whilst heading over to the tap round the back of the old stables they were using as a gear store.

Stephen followed him, doing his best to ignore the bulge in his pants. Ignoring got more difficult to achieve as Ryan dropped the jacket, displaying a disconcerting expanse of sweaty, naked back.

Exceedingly well muscled sweaty, naked, back.

A back that felt slippery and wet and very, very hard under Stephen’s fingers.

Ryan gulped water out of cupped hands and Stephen found his fingers being ignored, right up to the moment he slipped them round an equally sweaty chest and grazed his lover’s nipples.

The soldier slithered round in Stephen’s grasp and he found a hot, greedy mouth assaulting his lips and a tongue forcing its way into his mouth, attempting to make a very close acquaintance with his tonsils.

And the sharp, acrid smell of sweat damn nearly drove Stephen straight over the edge. He moaned into Ryan’s mouth and squirmed against his lover’s damp chest, reaching down to undo his zip, then Ryan’s, dragging his lover’s hands down to both their cocks.

Ryan’s laugh blew hot breath across his neck, “Are you trying to tell me something, Hart?”

A grunt was all the answer he got, as frantic hands scrabbled at his hips. Somewhere, all mixed up in a series of grunts, punctuated with sharp, ragged breaths, the words Fuck me, you bastard might just have been lurking.

“Did that little display just turn you on, darling?” Ryan’s voice was low and husky and just made Stephen squirm against him even harder, but much to his irritation, all the captain did in return was shift position slightly and lean against the wall with both hands, arms straight, muscles still hard and bunched.

In the hope of getting a reaction, Stephen started licking all the way along one arm, nipping and kissing, enjoying the salt taste, paying special attention to the inside of Ryan’s elbow and the soft spot close to his armpit. He knew the bastard was aroused, he could smell it, sex-musk mingled with the sweat, he could feel the evidence of it under his fingers, so why wouldn’t he move? Why wouldn’t he fuck him, for chrissake, hadn’t he asked nicely enough or something?

What did a guy have to do to get a shag around here, beg?

Just in case that was what was needed, he tried it.

Ryan’s laughter slid across his cheek in a warm gust, smelling faintly of beer. Special Forces didn’t play dangerous games totally sober, no matter how much Claudia complained.

“You thought I was going to lose, didn’t you, sweetie?”

So that was it, the bastard’s professional pride was piqued!

“Sorry, but when he forced that shift on you and you fluffed the parry ……..”

“What makes you think I fluffed the parry, my love? Did he take a hit off me?”

Oh shit, Stephen wanted a fuck, not a deconstruction of the entire effing bout.

“Well, he had just scored one, yeah ……….” and if I don’t score myself in a minute I’m going to be doing more than whimpering ………

“Just playing counter-time, honey-bun ……… I thought you of all people would guess that ……..”

Ryan’s tone was light and teasing and desperately sexy and the bastard was still not moving ……. still not fucking him …………

Stephen had just spent the best part of two hours watching Special Forces playing a variety of violent and increasingly homo-erotic games and all Ryan was doing was standing there discussing tactics? 

To be fair, the hardness of his lover’s cock under his fingers told a slightly different story, but he still hadn’t succeeded in getting any actual movement out of him. Stephen was conscious of the fact that he was now starting to writhe increasingly damply and might even be in danger of whimpering if he didn’t get what he wanted very soon.

Maybe whimpering was what Ryan wanted? So he tried it, just in case.

He also buried his nose in Ryan’s armpit and started to bite and nip at the ridge of flesh standing out between chest and shoulder. There were distinct advantages to the fact that the Special Forces captain didn’t seem to possess a single ticklish bone in his exceedingly hard, attractive body.

When even whimpering didn’t seem to be working, he decided the only thing for it was direct action. He shoved his own jeans down off his hips, then sliding round, he reached back and grabbed Ryan’s cock with one hand, rubbing it against him, guiding it to where he wanted it. His other hand was occupied with another quest.

One of Ryan’s deep-throated chuckles was damn nearly his undoing. “I don’t carry gun oil in my trouser pockets, you randy little sod. You’ll have to wait till we get back upstairs before I screw you into the wall.”

Wait? Fuck that for a game of soldiers! Ooops, that was where the problem had started!

Surely enough sweat had found its way down to his arse by now? That, plus Ryan’s own leaking fluid would just have to be enough ………

He writhed again, every movement more uncoordinated than the last, then he finally managed to line himself up and shoved back hard. Very hard.

Ryan’s hips gave way slightly in surprise, then every muscle in the soldier’s body stiffened into iron and he held himself in position, letting Stephen fuck himself as hard and fast as he wanted. His lover’s own arms were braced against the wall now preventing him sparing a hand for his own cock, which drew another amused chuckle out of the soldier.

It was a novel way of getting a shag and he had to give Hart marks for effort in this department, that was for sure, even if his powers of observation weren’t quite as finely tuned as Ryan might have expected.

Stephen thrust backwards, ignoring the lack of sufficient lubrication. Enjoying it, actually. Enjoying every rough, self-inflicted drag of Ryan’s hard cock inside him. Enjoying every arse-clenching shiver which went straight through his stomach and into his groin.

There …… just there …… oh shit ……... that’s it ……there …... … fuck ……... yeesssss

He was barely conscious of Ryan’s hand wrapping itself carefully round the head of his cock as he came, expelling a filthy, broken whimper, that sounded obscene even to him. And then he groaned again as Ryan abruptly withdrew.

A moment later, before his body had time to adjust, a somewhat more lubricated cock rammed back into him and in another half dozen fast, deep strokes, Ryan hit his own climax, deep inside him, biting down on Stephen’s shoulder, marking him in a way that made him writhe again with pleasure.

And a voice every bit as hot as the afternoon sun muttered in his ear, “For a tracker, you’re a fucking unobservant little shit at times, Hart, I wank left-handed, as well, remember?”


End file.
